


Monumental

by Ancalimë (Cymbidia)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Statues and Memorials, Talking At A Statue Of Your Dead Brother Is Totally Therapy, not as sad as it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 15:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14023620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cymbidia/pseuds/Ancalim%C3%AB
Summary: In the Rath Dínen are the houses of the dead Kings and Stewards, but along the road standing guard are statues of the Númenorian kings of old. Elrond pays his brother a visit after Arwen and Aragorn's wedding.





	Monumental

Cold stone. Elros laid beneath the sea in his glorious and forgotten tomb, and all that remained of him was cold stone.

Elrond touched the ancient statue lightly.

Here along the Rath Dínen ran the tombs of the kings and stewards of Gondor. The Sea-Kings had become Stone-Lords, and as such their palatial stone houses were of such grandness and cunning craftsmanship that the Feanorian within Elrond stirred with approval. Along the road the houses ran, Elendil and Isildur and Anarion’s all lying empty at the beginning, and the lines of Gondor stretching out into the distance.

Lesser sons of a once great house the lords of Gondor might have been, but they never forgot the glory of their drowned homeland. The Rath Dínen was lined at tidy intervals with exquisitely lifelike statues of the Kings of Númenor, from whom Elendil has claimed his legitimacy. And there, standing with his hands propped on his greatsword and clad in Noldorin styled armour, was Elros Tar-Minyatur. Tall and handsome he was, proud and strong. He looked fierce and glorious, flushed with a youth and lightness of spirit that was tempered with only wisdom and not weariness. It was a startling likeness, the statue’s face almost an exact mirror of Elrond’s. The armour on Elros had been painted and gilded, beset with great glittering jewels. The armour and the sword and the circlet had all been carried out on the waves of the Downfall in Elendil’s ship, but the likeness had been made by one of Elendil’s folk, with Elrond as a reference.

Elrond ran a gentle finger alone the curve of Elros’ cheek. How cross would Elros be, that they had decked a largely hidden statue of him with his second best sword and his second best circlet. He would have been torn with outrage at being fitted with second-best and petulance at not having his statue set upon the very gates of Minas Tirith for all those who pass to admire. And how he would have pouted, to know that Maglor had triumphed with his endless nagging in the end, and that the last real image of him above the waves was of him clad in his full armour, which he had ever deemed cumbersome and heavy.

Light and cunning was the craft of the armour, wrought from mithril and from Song. The mithril had been a gift from cousin Tyelpe, who knew a lot of rich dwarves, and Maglor had sung over the forge as Maedhros hammered away with the greatest of care, his clockwork prosthesis not quite nimble enough for the fine work. Elrond could still feel the lingering presence of his foster-father and uncle in the gleaming metal. Their love and fierce protectiveness had been woven into the metal like tree-light into the Silmarilli. Elrond touched his own breast. He had not had many opportunities to wear armour in the third age, but he wore his mail shirt at the very least every time he left his valley.

“Art thou well pleased, brother?” Elrond said to the statue. “Ever didst thou lament being second-born and ever thou denied being the younger, yet now art thou not my granduncle-in-law?” Elrond touched the pointed ear of the unhelmeted head tenderly, recalling when he used to tweak Elros’ ears to tease his baby brother. “Of course,” Elrond said, slipping back into the register of the present age, “it is your own fault for choosing death, now I am six thousand years rather than six minutes older.”

Elrond gazed upon the statue for another long moment. How elven it was, this statue of his brother that was unchanging and lifeless. How unlike Elros! Yes, he could see it now. Somewhere beyond the circle of the world, Elros was probably laughing at him for monologuing to a piece of rock. Elros never much liked pretty pieces of rock after the nightlight that he and Elrond had once used for teething turned out to be dragonsgold that brought naught but ruin to all their kin.

A likeness was not the real thing, no matter how close and lifelike the resemblance. Feanor couldn’t have rekindled the light of the trees even if he had consented to break the silmarilli. That was Elros had said, anyway.

Elrond reached into a pocket and brought out a paper-wrapped package. Inside were two pieces of sweets, candied nuts, berries and seeds which had been pressed into bars and cut into tiny ingots, an ancient Tatyar wedding delicacy Maglor had taught the twins to make. Elrond took one and ate it in two tidy bites, and set the other in its package at the statue’s feet.

“I stood for both the bride and groom,” Elrond confided. “For Aragorn it was as his foster-father, which you know I am, but in my heart I also stood in your place as his forefather. Ever did I love your sons as my own, brother mine, yet I cannot help but wish that you had been there to stand across from me and to witness the joining of our house that once had been sundered by our separate choices. But alas, ‘twas once again by the parting of my path to my dearest kin that such a thing was made possible. One day Arwen and Aragorn shall join you beyond the circle of this world, and there you shall grow to love them as I do. The years are heavy, brother, and the great evils of the elder days are no more. I can tarry no longer upon this hither shore. Namarië, brother, until the world’s final breaking! I parted with you for my love of this marred middle-earth, yet now I must part with it also. Watch over me! We will meet again when the world is remade, no matter what the wise mystics say of the doom of elves and men. I know we shall! For are we not the two bodies of one soul, and does your spirit not still live within mine even as half of me has fallen through the void of Death? Goodbye, my brother, and until we meet again!”

Elrond fell silent after he had spoken the words that had weighed upon him ever since the wedding. It would soon be time to depart.

“Farewell, brother,” he repeated again, softly, kissing Elros on his cold unchanging face.

Then he turned away and slipped through the door. Behind him, the great doors clanged shut with resounding finality. The gate guard turned the lock with a click. Elrond smiled as he went away, humming a nonsensical children’s rhyme.


End file.
